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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120099">Ebwarre Kar</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiwimin/pseuds/Deiwimin'>Deiwimin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fatal Illness, Gore, Heke should have his own warning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Smut, graves, underage Ramsay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:55:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,826</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiwimin/pseuds/Deiwimin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Was it Reek who corrupted Ramsay? Or Ramsay Reek?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ramsay Bolton/Reek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ebwarre Kar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warning: Graphic scenes in both chapters</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Mest fair, mest fair! Thine auburne hair,<br/>
For one mere tress I will to bear,<br/>
The mountains, seas and winter airs,<br/>
I plead beseech my maiden fair,<br/>
Wouldst thou prolonge this bare affair,<br/>
For sadde and mad, corrupt street fare?</i>
</p><p>Girlies lively giggled and ducked away to hide the blushing. What eyes, and such poetry. Maesi with the pretty face; the subject of the little song could not help the pride and awe.</p><p>The Maesi who would not look Ramsay in the eye when he was at the mill.</p><p>X</p><p>Splattering blood, squirting all over the moss altar. The intestines and guts gently slid out of his belly. Ramsay Snow relished in forcing the freshly, dripping, ripped out liver onto the quivering man’s hand. Watching his own insides as he gurgled; choking in his very own hemorrhage. Skinner was clearing the red mess from Ramsay’s dagger. The man he had, once Ramsay began residing in the Dreadfort. And there was Grunt, prodding and worrying through the lungs, testing the brittleness of the long twig. Two of the strongest hands around. They have had their fun, should they not leave soon, there was bound to be an end to their satisfaction. But Ramsay could not leave it behind, for the good of him. He grabbed up the skull of the man; pinching out the eyes and planted them inside a little steel box.</p><p>“Maesi and her friends still think he’s got the prettiest eyes?” I say when we go back we pay them a visit. Have them service us for the favour we so graciously suffered them. The three young men cheered. “Good to have girls this bold, right boys?” His smile flashed like ivory under the moon, yet the night was young. Ramsay licked the crusty blood from his fingers as their small party headed to the tiny camp. They still had one remaining day until he had to return into the castle walls. His father was requiring much of him. Reading and text. If he shamed lord Bolton, he was threatened to be thrown down a sink. His father could be petrifically cryptic when he made his threats.</p><p>He had left his Reek behind, the second priority to attend to when he gets back. Who knows how lonely he fared, returning to the big, unkind halls once more. He couldn’t wait to go back and give him a private surprise. Just when the sight of the opening and campfire encompassed them, a few leverets scampered through. Looked like a right roast.</p><p>XxX</p><p>Reek had gone hungry again. Without Ramsay to provide for him, the kitchens casted only bones and dried bread to him. He had to go out searching for pigeons and wild fruit, though at this time of the year they were scarcely present. Reek understood his his master had the need to enjoy himself. Life at the Dreadfort was very attractive on him, but the element of loud crass fun was necessary for a younger man. This time Ramsay had opted to go without him, and while it was accepted as such, it pried thorns into Reek now. The pricks cankered sour tastes in the depth of  his mind. He shifted his feet to the stones that fortified the ground, retiring for the day. He was frequenting the kitchens plenty, and it became a nenscient triviality, even when he came closer and closer to the tables, just to gaze at the foods and boiling pots, the tinted high plates. All he wanted was to smell, and the maids let him until his stench came unbearable to them.<br/>
Domeric passed Reek that morning, he said nothing much, not that he knew what to say to someone like Heke. As the young lord spinned a corner, it all happened exceptionally swift, and his breath caught the air. He softly coughed from the movement.</p><p>Reek scampered through, trying to escape his cess. Into the blind shadows of the corridor he felt his own fingers. All was well, all was good. Ramsay belonged to Reek. He liked to place in sentiment just how much he belonged to Ramsay. Much so. Reek swept his heel and went to the green wet fen, vest the next seasoned meal for finer clay. He didn’t know just how well Ramsay would see to him in his return, but he had to do what was best. If it was any other time, it would be a catastrophic time to behold. Now that Ramsay was not present, this was the best time to act. Reek couldn’t think of grim augury any longer, he had a purpose and tomorrows to carry on his bones, so he lost himself in fantasy.</p><p>XxX</p><p>Ramsay ran a thumb at his small axe, it had a lacking lustre, the chip on the blade, so bothersome. He felt the dying need to hurl it at a fat elk and part with the old thing. Was he cold again? He asked for a skin of spirit again, and one of his company obliged. He had a sense of good feeling inside of him. Almost like one time, he dreamt of a mighty steed with a name. He would name it Mangler, and dress it in a shining spiked chamfrom. The sun was ready to set, and he had yet to turn his story round the fire. None had slept the night. They made high tales and jests to last eternity instead, and the sun rose before the stars vied to be seen. By the time morning rays; all slouched low, slurred heavy and slumped in fatigue.</p><p>The woods were beginning to grow too cool for them. In fact the freckles of snow were falling manically. “I see another day in this pretty hell, and then we return.” The boys agreed. Grunt wanted to go back as soon as these hells allowed. Too long and there would be frostbite to rid. Ramsay studied a scathed trunk of tree, and decisively twisted their path round another way. Their boots chipped dirt into the snow, making mudded frost where they crunched on. There had been a tiny stream up ahead, still rushing clear, some rough ice pellets were on the edges, being swept out of the whiteness. The weather significantly changed, being suddenly much colder, though the heat of the hunt induced excitement brushed all nipping. Ramsay and his men trekked through the melty river, grateful Alyn had not joined them, as he would have words too many and certainly not enough cheer. They noticed tracks contrasting the thin sheet of pale flecks, following the trail. Skinner felt a surge of satisfaction. There seemed a heavy heavier trip awaiting them. Perhaps he could have one for his cloak. It was beginning to snow after all. His mother had said she couldn’t find him good furs this year. All the stalls were overpriced. By nightfall, they had gathered their thickest clothing and hurried into the tent. The fire still burnt brightly; but too cold to venture outside.</p><p>XxX</p><p>Domeric hadn’t taken up his ride yet, it was a time usual as this left for the horses. His favourite mare was whining in anticipation, but the young lord never arrived. He was in bed instead, and heavy as his body was impossible. He could not lift his head even. When he attempted to rise for the morning, that damned cough taunted him all over again. He lay into his pillows and decided to rest. The serving girls brought him bread and soup, hoping it sooth his throat. They were rather enthusiastic, serving the young lord Domeric. The harp player, the taking heir to the house. Queerly after the water, the cough worsened and abandoned any possibility of subsiding. He had his cup placed down, and stared out the window. Shame for a sun-merry day as this.</p><p>The girls left the room, and Domeric was left to his chambers, well guarded by Bolton men. Yet he choked alone. Try as he may, sleep never took him. He stayed wide awake, mulling and muddling his head full. It was like the nights of unrest came back, though it was only afternoon, and a new plate of soup was fed to him by a different maid since the light of day. “My lord, how regrettable that you be here suffering. I hear your brother returns in two days. He might pay you the company if your fever hasn’t gone.” A talkative maid, perhaps what he needed. Someone who wished him comfort and seemed kindly. But all the goodness in the world couldn’t stop him heaving up rudely.</p><p>He was all red, sweat pouring, and the girl rushed to grab honey and calming herbs. Soon there were three, one drenching a towel wet for his forehead, and the others brewing medicinal brews, bringing over a pail and clean cloths. The one who served him dinner ran to the Maester, it looked like more than just a common cold. When he arrived, he took his measurements, and declared it a time unsafe. He told all to step out lest the illness be caught. He stayed in the chambers for the night, doing his best to stabilize the writhing and hyperventilating young man. He was coughing up blood, it did not look like disease of the lungs. It was so, a most awful gall, but a thing he was not so bold to think and speak for so fast.</p><p>The ravens took to the air in haste, and once servants were ushered away from the room, the Maester made a deeper prying for causations. He inspected plates, sheets, his skin, the clothes. He whipped a concoction for their surroundings. He was not so clear on the substance, though convinced no simple fever would bring this cause. No disease he knew of held this way on his skin overnight. But the boy was to die if there was no cure in hold.</p><p>Would it be wise to rile Roose’s fury...The bastard was away, and those boys of his, some of them were here. Perhaps it be better for the lord of the house to man his own household. Shame and pity, he hoped there be a hapful shaping of this house yet.</p><p>XxX</p><p>The Lord Walder Frey was having yet another blushing hand. After two refusals in attending his previous gatherings, there had be time they did. A peaceful land, and a quiet people required a feasting at the Riverlands. The weather outside was an odd change of winds and bright sun, but the halls were glowing with incensed candles and vibrant murmur. Lord Roose sat in his chair, Lady Bolton on his side, then reclining to their stay. The new bride seemed not much to stare at. She had a slightly plump look to her and almond eyes. All else lacked notable features. They discovered a raven at dawn. At the wedding, they were the first to clear their presence.</p>
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